


with your presence and your grace

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(everything falls into place)<br/>Willas, Sansa, and finding happiness. 'His grandmother is adamant he beds her, but he shall not do it if she is unwilling, will not force himself on a girl that is younger than his own sister and has suffered through countless horrors. So he asks her as such, murmurs a soft question to her about her thoughts on the wedding and the bedding that shall follow.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	with your presence and your grace

“She's a _child_!” he loudly protests, running a hand through his matted hair as the other gropes blindly for his cane.

His grandmother has accosted him in his bedchamber, still half-asleep and desperately attempting to ignore the rising sun. She is fully dressed, a light green headdress pinned firmly to her hair and her lips pursed as she looks at him sharply. He has no success with finding his weathered cane and gives up on the search, swinging first his bad leg slowly out of the bed, then his good one. It is there on the edge of his bed that he perches, hands folded in his lap and eyes blurry with sleep, trying desperately to convince his grandmother that he shouldn't have to bed Sansa Stark, not yet, not _yet_.

She is so very young. 

His grandmother shrugs, seating herself at his desk primly and shuffling through his correspondence. “She's flowered. Quite some time ago,” is all she will say on the matter.

He shakes his head softly at her words. It is not a matter of Sansa's ability, but rather her desire to be bedded. He is not some greenboy to take his pleasure in a woman without a care to her own thoughts on the matter. After everything both he and Sansa have experienced in their lives, he will not take an unwilling woman to bed, will not force this girl who is little more than a child to undergo what will surely be another horror in her already terrible life.

She has already made a concession in agreeing to marry him, a man much older than herself, and one who has no knightly title and a mangled leg. He will be a true husband to Sansa, will treat her with all the courtesy and respect she deserves, but he will not force himself on her. He will marry her, of that he knows, as much for his sake as for hers, but by all the gods he will not bed her until he feels it is right.

He splutters at his grandmother, shaking his head wildly. “Surely that does not matter!” he proclaims. “Just because she has flowered does not mean I have to bed her, not right away. Netty flowered years before she married Garlan.”

His grandmother sighs, sharply and quickly, pinching the bridge of her nose as she so often does when she must converse with his father. He thinks for a moment that she is about to curse him as she does his father (and Loras too, when his brother is particularly irritating her), but a sharp inhale of breath seemingly pushes the insult down. “Willas, dear, it would be best for both of you if the bedding did occur right away,” she informs him, speaking slowly. “A marriage in front of a septon and with numerous witnesses is somewhat secure, yes, but a marriage that has been consummated is a marriage that cannot be broken.”

His grandmother inhales slowly once more, gathering her thoughts. “We managed to take Sansa away from the Imp because he had not thought it proper to bed her, for whatever reason the man deemed appropriate. Surely you do not want Sansa taken from you because she is not your true wife.”

She clucks at him. “Dear Willas, I understand your reluctance to bed her, and I commend you for your gentle heart...but it would be best if everything were done completely, and done quickly. Only then may Lady Sansa become your wife truly, and only then can we protect her fully. The poor child has already suffered so much grief in her short life, and I believe she could be happy here. Willas, you could make her happy.”

“She is so young,” he murmurs, rubbing his eyes tiredly with the backs of his fingers. A weary sigh escapes him. He is eleven years older than her, a man grown. How can he possibly take her bed without any feelings of guilt?

But Sansa is a woman, to be truthful. He has often caught himself gazing at her, at the way her hair falls across her face when she leans over, at the way her chest rises and falls with the rhythm of her breathing and gods he has wondered so often what it would be like to hold her in his arms and kiss her pale neck. She is truly beautiful, all auburn hair and pale skin and when he looks at her he wonders why he was so reluctant to the marriage in the first place.

They are to be husband and wife, the future Lord and Lady of the Reach, but they are strangers to each other. He knows as little about her as he did when she arrived, and has mainly left her to the gaggle of Tyrell cousins in Highgarden, has left her to their soothing embrace and the routine of sewing, reading and singing that she finds so enjoyable, hoping that it would heal her spirit. He has been told that her body has already healed from the signs of her abuse, with only a few faint scars marring her back.

But he knows that whilst the body may heal, the spirit sometimes does not. The injury in his leg may have healed years ago, leaving him with an appendage that was more trouble than it was worth, but his spirit is still broken. He is content with his time in the stables, is happy to birth and raise the foals...but there is oft a time that he wishes he could saddle a horse and ride, ride far away, with the wind in his hair and the horse underneath his legs.

It would be the very same for Sansa he thinks. Physically, her scars are not as bad as his mangled limb, but receiving the very blows that caused those scars must have had a severe impact on her spirit. He knew the risks when he enrolled in the tourney at his father's insistence, knew that if by chance he did win he would not come out of it without a few scraps and bruises. He had never imagined he would receive such a crushing blow, but he has learnt to live with it.

And now, it seems, he must learnt to live with the fact that he must bed a near child in a few days time, for his grandmother has taken his silence for acceptance and has left his bedchamber, leaving naught but the sickening scent of roses.

\---

The next day, he finds Sansa in his mother's solar at midday, sewing. Her hair is pulled back from her face, braided in the fashion common in the Reach. He thinks it very becoming on her. She has been dressed in clothes Margie discarded when she went to King's Landing, the light greens and blues far better suited to her than the lackluster grey cloak she had arrived in, pulled tight over her recognisable hair.

She is by herself, the other ladies and his mother having made their way to the hall for the midday meal. He takes note of the numerous baskets of sewing, items of clothing being repaired or altered for the coming wedding. There is a thick green cloak bundled on his mother's dresser, and he has to force himself to inhale as he recognises it to be the Tyrell cloak, decorated with roses upon roses, the very cloak Garlan draped over Netty and the one he shall drape over Sansa in a matter of days. 

It is a sight to behold.

As is Sansa.

An eyebrow raised in concentration she threads the needle through the piece of cloth in her lap, and back through once more, pulling tight. A sharp exhale escapes her as she finishes the stitch, setting aside her needle in favour of sucking lightly on the thumb she has just pricked.

He thought to watch her silently until he gathered his thoughts, but the scrape of his cane against the floor as he shifts his weight to his better leg alerts his bride-to-be of his presence, Sansa turning her head to arch an eyebrow at him. He fights the urge to flee, and nods softly at her, cursing his cane.

Inhaling deeply, he murmurs, “You are preparing for the wedding?” and instantly winces at his words. Gods, how does Sansa make him so very nervous?

Sansa does not respond. He hears the rustle of cloth and her soft inhale of breath, but she does not offer any response to his words and he hopes she has dismissed them for the nervous chatter they were.

He shuffles forward slowly, cane tapping against the floor and straightens his tunic before he stands behind Sansa. She flinches slightly at his close presence, a reaction so slight he only just notices it. He moves to the side and forward, although the rearrangement pains him, so he is in Sansa's line of sight instead of a silent, hulking presence at her back.

She sets aside her sewing and stands up, smoothing out her skirts. He notes once more that they are nearly the same height, and delights at the fact. Sansa shall not have to kneel for him at their wedding, and he shall not have to attempt to bend whilst gripping his cane to cloak her. Neither shall have to compromise, Sansa especially, and for that he is thankful.

She offers him a soft smile, a mere twitch of the lips. He inhales sharply at the sight, wondering not for the first time why the Gods have seen fit to bless him with such a beautiful bride. But admiring her, while pleasurable, shall not accomplish the thing he has brave the stairs and come here to do – or rather, say. His grandmother is adamant he beds her, but he shall not do it if she is unwilling, will not force himself on a girl that is younger than his own sister and has suffered through countless horrors. So he asks her as such, murmurs a soft question to her about her thoughts on the wedding and the bedding that shall follow.

“I am prepared to fulfil my wifely duty, my lord,” Sansa informs him, her voice lilting. Her head is now bowed towards him, eyes trained on the floor beneath them.

He inhales at the sight and wonders if this is what their marriage is to be like.

Gods, he would rather lose the use of his legs all together than have Sansa remain fearful of him for the rest of her days. He has to smother a chuckle at the thought of anyone finding him fearful. He is trained with a sword and lance, to be sure, but he is not fearful, not at all. He would never raise a hand to a woman, would never dare to for fear of his lady mother and grandmother, and he is saddened by the thought that Sansa believes he would be capable of doing such a thing.

Inching towards her, his hand tight on his cane, he crooks a finger underneath her chin and gently lifts her face up to meet his, smiling softly at her. Her eyes are Tully blue, as blue as the sea that laps against the walls of Oldtown, and he swears he could look at them forever, could drown himself in them. He hopes she finds his countenance as similarly pleasing – he knows Loras and Margie are the true beauties of the family, but Garlan has oft been praised for his looks and told what handsome babes he shall have with Netty, and he hopes Sansa does not think him too ugly, nor too old for a beauty like herself.

“Whilst I am pleased to hear that, my lady,” he tells her, returning the courtesy and stifling his declaration that she simply must call him Willas (for there shall be time for that later), “I would rather you did not see it as such a burden. I will not bed you if you are unwilling.”

Sansa flushes at his statement, ducking her head away from his fingers and inhaling shakily. “Is it not a burden, my lord?” she questions, looking cautiously up at him.

“It does not have to be,” he suggests, taking one of her hands in his free one.

It is however a burden to remain standing, and he knows that come nightfall he will be cursing himself, but he shall not remind Sansa of how broken the man she is to marry actually is. He is certain he shall be bed-ridden for many days after their wedding itself, so one more day will not hurt. For now all that matters is assuring Sansa that he shall not hurt her on their wedding night – no more than he can help. He clears his throat in anticipation of her reaction, expecting her to blush once more and remove herself from his presence in embarrassment.

Sansa however surprises him, and he is glad for it, for she nods at his statement and offers him a seat silently. He gladly takes it, mindful of the pile of linen on top of it, and smothers the weary sigh that he so desires to expel as he sits, placing his cane gently down on the floor. Sansa resumes her previous chair, and her sewing, whilst he sits in silence.

“My mother and father married for duty,” Sansa informs him after a few silent minutes, stitching consistently. He nods silently, eyes urging her to continue. Everyone, even those in the Reach, have heard the tale of Catelyn Tully marrying Eddard Stark after the death of his brother Brandon, but hearing it from Sansa's lips is riveting.

“It was only when I was eight and there was a feast for mother's thirtieth nameday that I found out they had not loved each other all along, and that mother had loved my late uncle Brandon. I was shocked, for how could the love that so clearly existed between my parents be something that was forged years after their marriage, not right from the beginning? I had thought I was a product of their love, but it was only their duty that ensured my birth. How could they have learnt to love each other, if it hadn't been obvious from the start? I had dreamt of one day sharing a love like theirs, only to learn that it had taken time to forge their love, and that they had married only for duty, not for desire.”

She finishes a stitch quickly, before glancing up at him, offering him a soft smile. “But my mother and father learnt to love each other nonetheless, and the fact that it had taken time to forge their love only made it stronger and more beautiful. I should have thought upon that when I thought myself besotted with Joffrey.”

She inhales deeply, shaking her head as if to rid herself of her memories, before meeting his eyes. “It shall take time to love you," she tells him, "But I am willing to try. Like my mother before me, I will do my duty.”

He parts his lips to reassure Sansa that it shall not be a duty at all, that he shall make sure she is as happy as he is sure to be in their marriage, will shower her with as many gifts as she desires and tell her each and every day how beloved she is to him, but she surprises him once more, murmuring, “And perhaps in time I shall not think upon it as a duty.”

The words make him grin, an action he is sure Sansa's presence will evoke until his very last breath.

He remains in the room with her, watching her sew and thinking how truly happy she shall make him, until the gaggle of Tyrell cousins and his mother return from lunch and shoo him out, Sansa grinning at the sight of him being pushed out of the room despite his loud protests.

He relishes the sight of her smile, and swears he shall endeavour to ensure he is the cause of many more.

**Author's Note:**

> Because Sansa ending up with Willas would make me delirious with happiness - and I think it would make Sansa happy too.


End file.
